


Pumpkin Spice of Life

by EventHorizon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autumn, Coffee, Don't copy to another site, M/M, Pumpkin Spice, mystrade, pre-Mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EventHorizon/pseuds/EventHorizon
Summary: Sherlock's bit of revenge on his brother may pay some surprising, and much desired, dividends for the brother in question...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 34
Kudos: 233





	Pumpkin Spice of Life

Sherlock. Sherlock behaving as a lunatic. Sherlock behaving as a lunatic and attracting police attention. Sherlock behaving as a lunatic and attracting police attention on the coldest, bitterest night of the year to date. Marvelous.

“You cannot blame me for this, Mycroft!”

“A flower shop was utterly ransacked and you stand there perfumed with a heady floral aroma and sporting a veritable rainbow of petals in your hair. To whom do you suggest we assign blame if not you? Paddington Bear?”

“I was entirely correct about the drugs being stored here so that…”

“Does not change the fact the proper course of action was to notify the authorities, not break into the establishment and engage in fisticuffs with the man on guard. And his dog.”

“I did not hit the dog! And it belonged, apparently, to the family living in the flat above the office next along and simply visited each night for a treat. It is safely returned to its family, along with the remainder of the treats in the box. His name is Gladstone.”

“Is this the same family that property recognized the ensuing fracas and phoned the authorities to have you arrested?”

“Their error of judgement is irrelevant to the point that none of this is my fault!”

The verbal war waged another few minutes until Mycroft flicked a finger or two, which magically summoned two sizeable constables from the shadows to remove Sherlock to another room, preferably with soundproofing. And a cage.

What a bother. Yes, Sherlock had been correct about the drugs ring, however, could the infant not, not a single time, simply let the authorities manage the situation? He had been home and in slippers for pity’s sake! A rare night where the world had not declared mayhem and he was able to return home before the darkness could accurately be described as morning and… his sofa, comfortable clothes, warm slippers, a brandy and a cinematic gem from the era where a stellar script and exceptional acting were routinely on offer.

Now, here he was, standing in vegetal devastation, smashed windows allowing in the frigid winter winds and, once again, trying to think of a reason that he should not have his brother incarcerated in a zoo with the other primates and rampaging rhinos.

And, oh goody… the happy jingle bells of the door announcing another member of the police service he would have to manage. In no manner was he sufficiently fortunate tonight to have that individual be…

“Mr. Holmes! How are you this fine, frosty evening?”

Fortune smiles! Detective Inspector Lestrade. And appearing as warm and exquisitely masculine as always. However…

“Good evening to you, as well, Detective Inspector. Has it been that trying a day for you?”

Mycroft nodded towards the two insulated coffee cups in Greg’s hands, each merrily emitting a plume of steam as if auditioning for a role in a holiday ad.

“These? I admit I was a bit surprised to get Sherlock’s call, but he had a surprisingly nice suggestion, so you can thank him for it when you’re done kicking his arse to Scotland.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose sharply as Greg handed him one of the cups, which stayed ungrabbed for a very long moment until The British Government reached out to hesitantly pluck the warm cup from Greg’s fingers.

“The lad said it was your very favorite, which I completely understand since it’s just so lovely on a horrid night like this one. At least there’s no snow, though, right! Or sleet. That’s the worst. Ought to be made illegal, then I could arrest Mother Nature for her nonsense once and for all.”

As Greg laughed at his joke, Mycroft’s nose caught scent of what he’d been handed and fought the scowl that was rapidly rising on his features. Coffee. The urine of demons fed a diet solely of asparagus. Dreadful stuff. Positively dreadful. But that was not the worst.

The worst was… this.

“Sherlock bid you purchase this. I see.”

I see very, very clearly and will enact a vengeance upon him that shall flay skin from bone. Boil his blood in his veins. Straighten his curls so they lay forever limp on his wretched head.

“I think he hoped it might buy a spot of goodwill since he’s been daft yet again. Rather a talent of his, I’d say. The daftness, not the buying goodwill, which is actually something new. Worth encouraging, though!”

Oh, Sherlock surely thought he was buying a spot of something. His own revenge. And amusement. Well, the number of do-gooder groups and political organizations that would now receive his brother’s mobile digits was going to number in the… numbers did not actually reach those heights according to modern mathematics.

“Most certainly. However, I…”

“Go ahead, have a sip. No need to stand on politeness or anything. I’ve already had a few of mine, though not from your cup. Got my own, though I decided for something nutty. Not quite a tasty roasted chestnut, but it’ll do for now. Needs must and all that.”

Greg took a long swallow of his bone-warming beverage and Mycroft marveled that the man could make even the simplest, most banal act something electrically charged with erotic potency. Which exacerbated the horror of this situation. He could not disappoint Gregory! He could not show indifference or, worse, dissatisfaction with his act of amity. The ingratitude, the callousness… the mere thought of such was absolutely abhorrent. This was going to hurt…

Raising the cup, Mycroft braced himself with more fortitude than had been required when he’d faced a highly-trained agent who was pointing a gun at his head… while grinning… and kept even a trace of his revulsion off of his face as he took a sip.

“Ooh, not quite to your liking?”

FORTITUDE FAILURE!

“Heaven’s no! Merely surprised somewhat by the warmth. Rather a silly thing, but the abrupt change of temperature upon my tongue took me unawares.”

“Good! Not good your tongue got startled, but good you enjoyed the coffee. They vary, you know? Have a flavored type from one place and it’s very different at another. At least, that’s the way it is for the nutty flavors I enjoy. I can easily imagine it’s worse for pumpkin spice, which is… well, there’s more to it, isn’t there? Seems that way, at least.”

Pumpkin spice. Looming like a dark and malignant specter over the cooler months. Another way by which the grotesque Americans polluted the world with their nonsense and depravity. Drinking ammonia infused with insecticide would be a pleasanter imbibing experience than this insult to… everything.

“A veritable cornucopia of complexity, to be certain. In any case…”

So as to distract from my terror at being expected to take another sip of this bilge water…

“… I must apologize for Sherlock taking you away from your evening. I took pains to ensure the situation could be handled without necessitating an officer of your rank…”

You specifically.

“… being bothered by it all. Sherlock offers enough bother that any measure shifted from one’s shoulders is ever a blessing.”

“And I appreciate that. Truth be told, I was working late and on my way home when Sherlock rang. Luckily I wasn’t so far away that it was much of a detour to get these lovelies and take a look at the newest Sherlock-caused catastrophe. Seems to be well in hand, though, all in all.”

“Yes, there is a Detective Sergeant milling about who tended to matters most efficiently.”

“Dawkins. Spoke to her outside and kept her from stealing your coffee. Those fingers of hers are strong, too, so it was a fraught battle.”

One you should have politely lost, Gregory Lestrade. Your characteristic chivalry deserted you at the worst moment possible.

“Alas, but I have little doubt she shall acquire her own in due course.”

“She already dispatched a constable with orders to bring back a large one or there’d be hell to pay. One of the perks of moving up the ranks. Need a coffee? There’ll be a pair of younger legs about to scarper off and find one for you.

The privileges of position were something Mycroft found very dear to heart.

“Unquestionably. Now, though, I assume you are taking charge of this and…”

“Nope!”

“No?”

“Nope! I’m just Greg the coffee lad tonight. Dawkins has things sorted and I’m not going to be that berk who steps in and takes the lauds for someone else’s success. Yeah, Sherlock did spark the powder keg, but he had eyes on flower shops based on things he got from us and we’d eventually have fathomed it out ourselves. Dawkins has been working this one awhile and she’s due all the credit, and paperwork, for seeing it closed.”

Your integrity is without equal, Gregory. It is a tragedy that your view of coffee is also without equal, though in a far more calamitous fashion.

“Most admirable. I take it, then, you are set to continue your evening in the manner you had planned.”

“I suppose. The only plans I had, though, were popping in somewhere for a bite to eat then either continuing home or doing another bit of popping in at my local for a pint or two. Nothing terribly interesting. Yourself?”

I _am_ interesting, yes. Very much so, in point of fact.

“Seeing Sherlock returned to Doctor Watson’s negligent clutches then…”

Should he? His evening was, by some standards, a boring one, however, Gregory’s was little better so…

“… finishing the viewing of my film and drinking of my brandy.”

Which just might wash away the taste of this gourdy atrocity. _Might_. More drastic measures may be in order. Such as a blowtorch.

“That’s…”

Boring, yes, I know. But supremely relaxing.

“… that’s perfect. In all seriousness, that is absolutely perfect. Let me guess, too – you’ve got a film made when films were films and not ways to wrap product placement and most of what you see is done with computers.”

“Oh…. yes. That describes my film rather well. The production date, if I recall…”

And I do.

“… is 1941.”

“A brilliant era for films. I can appreciate the modern stuff, they’re sometimes a grand bit of fun, but I’m still fondest of the things I remember watching when I was young and it was take it or leave it on the telly. None of this streaming or cable or whatnot. God I sound old…”

Finely aged, Gregory. Like an impeccable wine. Would that I could sip of that and not this execrable poison I am holding.

“Not at all. Merely possessed of praiseworthy taste in cinema. It is unfortunate that we cannot enjoy such offerings as they were meant to be seen, painted large upon a screen, to better enjoy their grandeur.”

That was florid. Perhaps it was the influence of the surrounding flowers.

“Hmmmm….”

Definitely too florid.

“I mean… that is to say…”

“Not too far from here, there’s a little cinema, one of those independents that I’m surprised can keep their doors open what with the big ones and all their multi-screen glitz and glitter, but they do and it’s brilliant for showing older films now and again. It’s… ummm… well, nothing says that you might want to have a look and if… I know you work long hours and so do I but…”

Wait. World, do stop spinning upon your axis because I must have complete and utter stillness to properly process this moment. Is… could it be? Could Gregory Lestrade, exemplar of men, be suggesting… a rendezvous? A measure of time shared? With him! Surely not. What poppycock.

But poppycock does not explain the expression on Gregory’s face. Tentative. Possibly… hopeful. Struggling to frame a proposition like a shy schoolboy approaching the object of his affection. Or friendship! Must not vault over the interim possibilities. Which, to be fair, held their own appeal. There was much joy to be taken from a friendship. Or so he was told.

“… I wouldn’t mind seeing something with a body who…”

“Fatcroft!”

Sherlock had a long history of dramatic entrances but few were met with the ferocious potency of the glares he was receiving. From two directions!

“I… as previously stated, you are fat. And, ah, I see Lestrade fulfilled his duty.”

“If you mean brought your brother something nice since he’s keeping your skinny arse out of jail, then yes. Though I prefer to think of it as a favor and not a duty but I see why you don’t since you’re a prat.”

“Your favor, Lestrade, is a paltry one since Mycroft has obviously taken but a single, miniscule sip. Did you make your purchase from a vagabond selling his urine to purchase cigarettes?”

At least his brother properly recognized the uriniferous nature of his foul potion. Though Gregory should not have to bear the nitrogenous waste of Sherlock’s peevishness.

“No! I went to a quality place. At least, it’s quality to me. I admit, though… yeah, your brother’s palate is probably a lot more refined than mine.”

The ‘oh shit I’m a peasant’ wince that crossed Greg’s face infuriated Mycroft like very little in his life to that point. That Gregory was made to feel shamefaced because of Sherlock’s devilry was completely unacceptable.

“Pshaw, Gregory. Your taste in coffee is nothing short of excellent. I was simply too engaged with our conversation to pay mind to much else. This is a most acceptable example of… pumpkin spice.”

Battling his arm’s enormous desire to tear itself from his body rather than lift the offending cup to his lips, Mycroft steeled his nerve and took a second sip wishing that lightning would immediately strike him dead so he might never have to endure such a travesty passing his lips ever again.

“D… delicious.”

“See, Sherlock! You’ve got something wrong in your head. _More_ wrong, that is. Actually, I’m not sure there’s anything in there _but_ wrongness but that’s not my problem right now, it’s Dawkins’s. Mr. Holmes, if you’re done here, I’ll escort you off the scene. The lads can see Sherlock makes it home to John in one piece. Mostly.”

Mycroft smirked as best his disgust-paralyzed face would permit and walked with Greg out of the shop with not a single look back at his horrid baby brother. Once through the door and a few steps along the pavement, it was several single looks, these in pure shock, when Greg plucked the coffee cup from his fingers, laughing heartily while doing so.

“I swear I saw your soul leave your body! You really hate this stuff, don’t you?”

Staring stunned, Mycroft’s brain emulated the nothing-filled quality of a television or radio broadcasting dead air until Greg took a sip of the accursed coffee then tossed it in a nearby bin.

“You… you knew?”

“For the coolest, most composed man I’ve ever met, you’re shit, sir, at hiding how close that came to killing you.”

Oh dear.

“I assure you, Detective Inspector…”

“It was revenge for you… doing anything at all, I wager, but specifically for answering the call when NSY’s ‘oh shit it’s Sherlock’ line lit up like a Christmas tree.”

There was no denying it and it would be insulting to Gregory to try.

“It was. That he involved you in his juvenile prank was inexcusable, however, and I do apologize for it.”

“I’ll have a chat with him about using you as a prop for his ridiculous theatrics. I imagine he was more incensed that, from what I gather, his self-proclaimed self-defense skills weren’t up to the challenge of a someone who truly knew how to put the hurt on someone. Lad didn’t fare badly, but I suspect it stings that it took destroying an entire business and calling in the old bill to get that thug off his arse. He needed to lash out and you were the perfect target.”

Insightful.

“True, but he could have attained his petty wants without inveigling you into his scheme.”

“Not much of a scheme, really. Actually, it was pretty clever. He knew you’d be polite and British and not say how desperately you hated pumpkin spice coffee so you wouldn’t give away his game while, at the same time, suffering mercilessly with every sip. Need some water to wash away the taste?”

An ocean of it.

“I shall be fine, Detective Inspector. Sherlock’s whimsy was mild, overall.”

“Then why are you still grimacing?”

Damnation!

“I…”

“How about this? I was considering a bite to eat and then a pint, right? How about we move straight to the pint? Or wine or scotch or whatever takes your fancy. Better that on the tongue that some seasonal sorrow you wish you could ban through international treaty.”

Both components of that statement merited strong and serious consideration. The international treaty would require some effort but a drink with Gregory… what an effortless and wonderful thing. And this was the perfect opening for such a joy to occur! Gregory had been on the verge of making a formal request before Sherlock, as typical, became the vinegar in the milk, so it was clear accepting would not be an imposition. This was… if he was a man with occult tendencies, he would declare it witchcraft, however he would opt for a more mundane descriptor and deem it serendipity.

“I would be delighted. Know you a nearby locale boasting tongue-healing potables?”

“A few, actually. There’s one in particular I enjoy when it’s a night I want something a cut above my norm and to enjoy it in cozy comfort. How does that sound?”

Marry me?

“Splendid. Lead the way, Detective Inspector.”

“Greg? Can’t stand on formality, now can we?”

“I agree, Gregory. And do call me Mycroft.”

“Thanks! And while we’re wiping away tonight’s distaste, we can think up something truly awful to do to Sherlock for our own bit of revenge.”

Your bloodthirstiness is entrancing.

“A stellar suggestion. I have a portfolio of ideas from which to draw and refine.”

“I can see that. It’s a big portfolio, isn’t it?”

“One that can be seen from space, rather like the Great Wall of China.”

“Yours is still bigger though, I wager.”

“By leaps and bounds.”


End file.
